The itinerant thinker

On Ants and Mosquitos

I'm being eaten alive here! Ants and ants everywhere. Big chunks of me are being bitten off and taken off on little backs to some feast in my honour. They crawl over your food. They crawl over your laptop and fall stupidly into the gap between the keys. They crawl up your feet and then up your legs. They get into your hair, your ears and up your nose. And worst of all they get into your camera lens! As I write this they are marching back and forth in a straight line from my breakfast. Nifty little red buggers with super fast reflexes like tiny Formula 1 cars . They seem to have developed a taste for humans: humans leave crumbs. Humans leave the leftovers of their breakfasts. Humans wipe their sugary-greasy hands on their clothes. Humans are dirty and their ear wax is full of proteins. We love humans.

Then there's the mosquitoes. Don't talk to me about mosquitoes! Like miniature helicopter gunships they are:

[Mosquito No.1] Human spotted Captain!
[Captain mosquito] Well done. Describe target, No.1?
[No.1] Male. Fat. American I think. Has a layer of thick, pink, juicy flesh. Head covered in New York Yankees baseball cap but I can attack the legs Captain. He's wearing shorts
[Captain] What activity is target engaged in, No.1?
[No.1] Sir, target is currently eating breakfast. American breakfast: sausages, toast, and dollops of marmalade
[Captain] Good. Good No.1. Commence attack. Go for the legs. Good luck! Over and out

Plenty of sunlight and rain - that's what attracts them here to Thailand. Why don't they buzz off to England? Plenty of rich pickings there? If I was a mosquito or an Ant I'd head for England. Just imagine:

[Wazee Mosquito] Alright guys, I'm off!
[Others] Off? Where too?
[Wazee Mosquito] To England!
[Others] England? What for?!
[Wazee Mosquito] Duh-Duh! You guys are so dim. For the culture man. The movies. The lights. The 8 million obese humans bursting with goodness ready for a good sucking. The galleries. The language "Ya'll rite mate!". For Brick Lane. For real luurve. For literature. For William. For Freddy. For Wazeem.
[Others] Who?
[Wazee Mosquito] For Wazeem
[Others] Who's that?!
[Wazee Mosquito] Someone famous
[Others] Really? Can't say we've erd of im'
[Wazee Mosquito] Course you can't man. Not many mosquitoes have, he's a writer, but I digress. Anyway, London will be my new playground. The tropics have been done to death man! Thailand is like so old time man! All the mosquitoes hang out in Thailand. You wanna try sumfink different. Like London. Just imagine. London Liverpool Street! Just imagine it in the mornings. That bustling crowd of lumbering ripe fleshy humans; staring at the train timetables like lost maggots. Pick & Mix man! Pick & mix! I'll zoom down from the terraces, wings swung back in dive mode, zip between the suited commuters, ready my proboscis, flash of flesh, take aim, fire, ouch - gotcha!

****

On telephone conversations

[UK relative] So any Muslims there?
[Me] What in Thailand? A few. Not many
[UK relative] Oh, so you're alone then?
[Me] Alone? What do you mean?
[UK relative] No 'apne lorgh'. No 'our' people. No Muslims.

That says a lot doesn't it? Just those words: 'Apne Lorgh - Our People'. The assumption being that you will be alone if you are not surrounded by you're own people. It's a common theme. I've never felt part of a larger community in England so for me atleast the theme doesn't exist. My immediate family and a few close friends are all I have. Thus the concept of aloneness in foreign lands is alien to me; failing to enter my mental realm. But it is interesting to see how others view it. They assume you will be challenged by the aloneness. But I believe that this is more an indicator of where they are coming from. It says more about their lives than yours; who their friends are. Who they feel comfortable with. And more importantly it tells you how big 'their sphere of comfort' is.

My Father came to England in the 60's. He's old now and I am eternally grateful that he made the migration. That he made the jump. Many didn't - and it takes gutso to do it; no doubt the spectre of seeing those boatloads of immigrants from England returning in dapper suits and bearing gifts helped him make the decision - and my life would be different if he hadn't. Travelling through Pakistan amomgst the down trodden made this realisation starker.

The point I want to make is that my father has been in England for 45+ years now. He has lived and worked here bringing up a family. But, in those 45+ years he made no lasting white friends. Why is that? And it's quite telling if you think about it. I think a big part of it is no doubt due to the racism he had to live with in the benighted days of his youth, terms like 'Paki' and 'Blackie' were common and I'm sure he suffered a lot. He dealt with it by putting his head down and working hard. Like most of the immigrants he wasn't a professional and he worked long hours in a factory returning at night to a home that my parents shared with many other families. He probably worked with people of a similar background and all the while he harboured dreams that his sons wouldn't have to do the same. That they'd get educated - the perennial immigrant dream. I think in those days it would have been hard for the white people he was working with to accept him. He would not have been able to go out for a drink. He would have eaten his own halal food out of a tiffin box and he would have spoken English poorly - so this would have limited his social interactions to people of his own ilk. And this is expected.

But the point I want to make is that now 50 years on, wouldn't you expect things to be different? And they are. Things are better now; communities less segregated; multicultural friends normal etc, but even then, when you go to places like Small Heath in Birmingham, you feel as if you have stumbled into a ghetto. And the telephone conversation above confirms this. I don't know why this is (that is not the subject of this piece). But I do know that it is not the right way to go. Maintaining one's culture and life is fine. I would rather live in a world where people are different, such a world is so much more fascinating, but it should not be an all or nothing thing. There should be give and take. Otherwise as a community, as a person, as an individual, you will never grow.

You will see the world more clearly in colour then when viewing it in black & white. If you do not add colour to your world view: by reading, imbibing, keeping an open mind, trying something a little different, perhaps visit a country you'd never dream of going to, then your time on the earth will have been wasted and you are a fool. Your time on earth is the only time you have. This is it. This is all your gonna get. Don't waste it.

****

On couples

I see a lot of couples. They're everywhere - like the ants and mosquitos! In fact more often then not I see couples on holiday. I was on the WWII bridge yesterday and who came up asking me to take their photograph? Yes a couple. So she smiles; squinting in the sun, her partner next to her and you snap a picture. Ah lovely! What a nice couple you think. So right for each other. Before you've finished pressing the shutter someone else touches you on the shoulder: can you take our picture pleeease?! - another couple. How can you refuse! Being alone makes it easier for couples to ask you favours - but you don't mind. Perhaps being alone makes you more approachable. Who knows. But you do think: why am I not like them? Why do I not have someone to share myself with? And sometimes it bothers you.

Dark clouds start drifting into your mind: what's wrong with me? And they get darker and before you know it you're in a deep trough: Yes I knew it. I'm a weirdo and a freakshow - you're now officially in the midst of a tempest; a tropical storm - a depression. But it doesn't feel like a storm; more like as if you're down at the bottom of a deep well and you can see the sky, a bright light at the top, but you have to climb out, up the rungs, into the light, to get out. So you start climbing. Up and up you climb and every rung in the ladder constitutes a reason why it is better to be decoupled as opposed to coupled:

1) Women smell. Why would you wanna be with a smelly person? (lame excuse? well it works)
2) You can stay in cheaper hotels and save loadsa dosh and spend the money on treating yourself
3) Have you ever seen couples on holiday? They look miserable. The women is thinking: I wanna get out of this! - Trust me I know (I can read minds)
4) The whole trip costs less. One mouth to feed (No, I am not a cheep skate)
5) Mood swings: how can you have a wonderful time with a person who has 7 different personalities - for each day of the week?
6) You can do whatever you want and you don't need to seek approval (surely that's gotta be worth some browny points?)

So you climb out of the dark well into bright sunshine. You smell the fresh air. The wide open spaces. The grass. The flowers. You get stung by the mosquitoes and the ants crawl up your legs, but it's ok. You're glad. Glad to be uncoupled. Works a treat!

My-oh-my-oh-my-oh-Pai (click images to walk closer)

Pai-radise

Postcard from Pai

Pai

Pai is a small town north-west of Chiang Mai that lies near the Myanmar (Burmese) border. It's a sleepy little place where the pace of life is rather sluggish. The population of Pai is 3,000 souls and the town is covered in a thick blanket of slumber. The Pai river winds lazily pass the town; a sleepy lethargic river that glides by without a care in the world and without a sound for I am staying on the banks and I can barely hear it. The birds are lazy and they sleep in the trees all day long. The geckos prefer sleep to an active life and remain stuck on walls like fixtures and fittings. The water buffaloes dawdle in the fields their bells slicing through the thick stupor of idleness that descends upon you like a plague. The sugary guitar music strumming out of the numerous cafes and bars adds to the torpor and lulls and enervates you even more - undermining your efforts to do anything active. Eventually weakened, enfeebled and barely able to walk you crawl to the motorbike shop to try and escape from the enforced idleness. The only creatures that are not sluggish are the ants; especially when you're having breakfast. Even before you've spread your marmalade they are crawling all over it; devouring it, zipping fast, their mandibles gouging out huge chunks of the stuff and then running away before you can squash them.

You can hire a motorbike and do some serious exploring of the surrounding countryside. But make sure you heed the advice and wear a helmet...I didn't, and my glasses ended up serving as a morgue for the bodies of countless splattered insects; the green slime of insect mess, insect squidgyness and twitching legs clouding my vision. Not pretty.

Planet Earth Forever (headphones required!)

(Thanks Martine!)

I'm a creep - (headphones required!)

For all those of you stuck in a comfortable but soul destroying 9 to 5 job and longing for that moment of escape here's a little something for your pain!



...but I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin here?
I don't belong here...

Coming soon...Part V - The adventures of Superfly 3D Sonic

Excerpt of a television interview of the prostitute girl called 'Rani' conducted two months after she met Superfly:

Interviewer: so what was this 'Superfly' character like?
Rani: [giggles and then plays with her dress] ooh well, where should I start! [giggles] Oh my! he was let me see, strong, athletic, flexible [giggles] and he had the stamina of a tiger! Rrrrrghhh! [she claws jokingly at the interviewer]
Interviewer: no erm actually I meant what was he 'like'. As in personality wise?
Rani: well he didn't say much. We just got on with it really. Well first I did a dance for him and then we got on with it
Interviewer: what did you do?
Rani: you're a nosey bugger aren't ya? [giggles] Well I sat on his lap first and then he took off my clothes
Interviewer: what did you take off first?
Rani: calm down mate. I'm getting there! You're feeling frisky aren't ya? [giggles]. Well I undid the strap to my brassiere...and
Interviewer: yes?
Rani: and then I turned around and
Interviewer: yes?
Rani: I unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one button at a time, sliding my hands in and digging those sharp fingernails into his chest clawing, scratching, biting, snatching
Interviewer: yes!
Rani: and
Interviewer: yes! yes! yes! just f***ing tell me!
Rani: [sits back in her seat] he had no hair
Interviewer: heh?
Rani: he had no hair! On his chest! There was no hair at all! And he had no nipples! No nipples! None at all. Not even one nipple
Interviewer: er...Oh, So you didn't have sex?
Rani: [Sighing] for crying out loud! Didn't you hear me in there mister! I said he had no hair and he had no nipples. All men have nipples. He had none! That's a bit strange wouldn't you say mister?

[Pause]

Interviewer: So let me get this straight right. You're telling me that...
Rani: yes!
Interviewer: that you didn't do it?
Rani: Uugh! No! [she storms out of interviewer muttering something obscene]

Knight of the Insomniac (click image to walk closer)

Postcard from Chiang Mai (click image to walk closer)

These young Monks are walking up the 306 steps that lead to 'Wat Phra That Doi Suthep'. Doi Suthep (1676m) is a peak named after the hermit Sudeva, who lived in the mountains for many years. The temple at the top of the peak is one of the north's most sacred. The top boasts some fine views of Chiang Mai city (weather permitting) and a cloister. Inside the cloister is an exquisite Lanna-style copper plated 'Chedi' topped by a five storey gold umbrella

Part IV - The adventures of Super-Fly 3D Sonic

"How are you please?" The man asked.

“You want bang-bang?” The graphic gestures he made with his hands left no illusions as to what he meant. Superfly had been walking along the promenade that encircles the Shalimar Gardens and the man had startled him by suddenly jumping out of some bushes where he’d been hiding.

“She very nice. Good bang-bang. Good fucking. You come with me" He said this with the emotion of someone hawking razor blades. "She big” he said drawing imaginary curves and breasts with his fingers.

“Maybe you want little huh? I have little. Thirteen years old. Nice. You want boy?” Superfly continued ignoring him. “Maybe you like Janwar?”

“Janwar?”

“Yes Janwar! Eee-hoo – Eee-hoo- Eee-hoo” the man was now impersonating a donkey “Maybe you like puk-puk-pakaaaah! – puk-puk-pakaaaah!” Superfly had never seen donkeys or chickens before but he knew that animal sex was definitely out of the question. The Guide did have some standards.

The night was not total; the moon was out and the stars were flecking the firmament like a billion fireflies stuck to it with glue, but the glare of the lamps, bulbs and the fluorescent tubes made the night seem darker; especially down the gulley's. One minute the pupils constricted to adjust to the glare and then the next, when you passed into a light less gully, they dilated to let in more light, but not quick enough so you found yourself stumbling – seeing with your feet. The fact that the Superfly was wearing those perennial sunglasses didn't help matters either.

Superfly had decided to start with the Whore Houses. Yes, he was stranded on earth but he had a job to do, and he’d think about escape later once he'd done his work. He always enjoyed this part of the research: the Whore Houses or Houses of Pleasure as you might want to call them. It wasn’t the sex. The sex was secondary. There is always something ancient and primeval about Whore Houses. It was a business transaction and that gave it a sheen of formality; 'Pay and Pleasure', but there was nothing formal about the act itself. Sex, for most sentient beings throughout the Galaxy, is the most inflammable and intimate experience of the life condition. And it's the same everywhere. It is raw primeval unadulterated animal sex – the violence of it; yes it is violent. You are thrusting yourself into another person and it hurts. But with the pain comes the pleasure.

For example on the planet of 'Wambang',as part of the mating ritual, the female is tied up and repeatedly beaten by the male with wooden sticks in a show of domination before consummation begins - all this in public. In affect the male is saying: hands off she's mine. Flesh becomes property.

On the planet of 'Gaggeengforeet' newly married couples abstain from sex for five whole years: the aim being to build up a torrent of desire. Couples that make it this far (if they haven't already separated from bickering) are usually found the next morning in the Accident & Emergency Department of the local hospital; because of injuries sustained from the nights rigorous love making.

On the binary worlds of 'Sodom', due to a cruel act of genetics, the male population outnumbers females 10,000:1. Realistically therefore, the average male has little chance of securing a female, so tends to spend his time writing angst-ridden poetry and beautiful piano ballads titled 'everything i do is the fault of you'. Every week great bloody Gladiatorial fight-to-the-death tournaments are held where two highly strung males, compete in life and death, for the right to spend a night (a night!) with a female. The fight is brutal. The fight is bloody. The fight is merciless. And the victor so badly wounded and knackered that he can do nothing but rest his wounds with his 'prize' that night.

****

A child witnessing two beings having sex would certainly begin to cry; and this testifies to its violence. But with the violence is forged a stronger bond. The violence breaks down barriers (you are naked before the person; all visible – wrinkles, spots, blemishes, flab- there’s nothing left to hide). With that then comes trust and eventually emotional dependence and love. You’ve heard of instances where a prisoner falls in love with the imprisoner. The prisoner has been violated. Her freedom has been taken away from her. She has been raped yet through this act; the barriers, the physical barriers that separate us (our bodies – we all have our separate bodies) fade. The boundary lines that separate us as distinct physical entities fade, so you (this might sound like a cliché) become ‘one’. The successes of one partner become the successes of the other. The trials and tribulations of one the trials of the other. But where was I! Yes we were talking about Whore Houses.

****

Lahore’s most infamous Whore Houses are in the Anarkali area of the old city. There is something beguiling about walking though a red light district that is hundreds if not thousand of years old. The number of men that have cruised these very cobblestones throughout history. The number of women that have been heard being pleasured from the balconies. The number of bastard children that owe their existence to this place! The alleys are narrow – a ravine of tall leprous buildings, lurching towards one another in queer attitudes as if they’re about to have a fight. You can barely see the sky in the gap between the roofs. The buildings are packed to the hilt with bedrooms; people engaged in the transaction of pleasure. The women stand outside the entrances like sentries; leaning on the door frames, arms folded like work men, staring and whispering and giggling as you walk pass. Are they women? Their demeanour and lack of effeminacy speaks of manliness.

Superfly walked into one of the whore houses following the girl that had snagged him in her claws. She was luring him in; leading him into her chamber. Her chamber of pleasures. Her boudoir of horrors. He was looking forward to this encounter. Her name was 'Rani', no doubt an assumed name, and she was young, 23 she said. "I will dance for you first" she had whispered roguishly into his ear. And this is what had sold him to her.

To be continued...

NEWS: Suicide bomb blast in Marriot Hotel, Islamabad - many dead

What is this cancer in the hearts of the people that commit these atrocities? What is the rage that burns inside their minds that makes them do death's bidding on innocents? What is it that pushes them to give up their lives and loved one's in a bomb explosion. What is the message they want to convey? The message is obvious: the attack was on the Marriot Hotel - the premier hotel for Westerners in Islamabad. It is an attack on the West. Maybe a response to America's recent blatant violation of Pakistani sovereignty (the Americans have been attacking targets in Pakistan from Afghanistan without authorization). But is it justified? Of course not. A tooth for a tooth and an eye for an eye is never an excuse.

The cancer at the heart of these people is religious fanaticism. An explosive cocktail of illiteracy, mind-warping, religious fervour and political Machiavelli's pulling psychological strings for political gain. Where do they recruit these people from? Now that's a question! And...how many more are there ready to do the bidding of these nutters? The country is already hanging from tethers; will this push it over the edge? Who knows.

Who died in the blast? I'll tell you: security guards, front desk hotel clerks (like that miserable Mr Gobiwallah) and taxi drivers lounging in the car-park waiting for fares - all typical Pakistani folk with families and children to feed - ordinary folk - poor folk - already desperate - their families now to pick up their bloodied pieces. But here's the point: the bombers don't care! For them, in their warped minds, it's the message that matters. The message to the West. The innocent lives shed in the conveyance of that blooded message don't matter one bit. In fact, if anything, they make the message that much more powerful. That much more louder. The more bloodshed and carnage the better. It's a warped world we live in.

People say: 'It's never that simple' - I know. 'It's more complicated' - I know. But I say: life is life. Pain is pain. And death is death. And there is nothing subjective about that. And this is all being done in the name of religion. Why don't we tear down this edifice, this anachronistic thing called religion. This monster of ancients, this brain washer of children; this artifact of a bygone age, this segregator of people, this tool of oppression, this fascist-nihilistic-narcissistic-sin obsessed-guilt feeding-construct of the human imagination. Why don't we tear it down, tear it down wherever it resides; and start anew. Build a world from common human decency. You don't need religion to be good. You don't need religion to teach you morals. If the only reason you don't commit murder, rape and pillage is because you're afraid of the great 'camera in the sky' then you've got issues. Religion is false and the sooner mankind rids itself of this cancer, the better. There. Said it. Am I angry? Fucking right I am.

Part III - The adventures of Super-Fly 3D Sonic (an alter-ego)

"Han Jee Sir, Bilkul. For you we have the 'Super Deeluxe Superior VIP' room and ah let me see, yes we have one room available, just one Sir that's the last one, and we can give you a special rate Sir on that ah let me see, yes only for today and just for you Sir, we can offer you a special discounted rate of Rs 40,000 per night. What do you say Sir? Damn good deal or what?!" The hotel receptionist was speaking as if he was in Sotheby's and on the home straight and on the verge of flogging one of Van Goth's paintings for a cool 40 million pounds.

The man in the cool shades looked at him unimpressed and frankly quite saddened. It wasn't the money. Money was not the problem. When you're a roving researcher for the Lonely Galaxy Guide, you can rest assured that fiscal issues have been dealt with. For all researchers carry that nifty electronic device known, rather appropriately, as the UCIRICH (Universal Currency Image Reconstructing Inductor Copyright Handset - more on this later). No, what was bothering the man in the cool shades was that the receptionist, a Mr Manzoor Gobiwallah (as his name badge said) had identified him as a feranji (foreigner) and was quite blatantly trying to rip him off. Incompetence one could handle but sheer chutzpah was another matter.

The man in the cool shades began to speak to the receptionist in a grave voice 'There are seedlings that grow to become mighty trees rising above the canopy, and there are those seedlings that grow to become scrawny rootlings that scavenge adulterously on the forest floor' and then to drive the point home he asked moving his face closer 'which are you Mr Gobiwallah? A towering tree or a little adulterous scavenger on the forest floor?'.His voice was strange. It had a weird electric modulation and and the accent was hard to place. In fact it was impossible to place for it was not an earth accent. Mr Gobiwallah looked on weakly shrugging his shoulders and cowering into his jacket. He didn't need this. He was a poor man with a family of three generations to feed - his own, his parents and his grandparents and all living under the same roof. His roof! He hated his job. It paid peanuts and barely afforded him a comfortable existence (if you could call this an existence) and then there was the lack of 'izzat' (respect) to it all; a measly receptionist in a second class hotel in Lahore was hardly something to be proud of, something his wife never failed to remind him every minute they were together.

And what made; what could have been just about a bearable job, things worse were the sour cream faced customers. Always complaining. Always moaning. Always rude and insolent with their lumpy cratered noses and there lizard skins and there blaming him for everything. He hated life and he was miserable. And now there was this, 'this' feranji standing before him, a strange man, with a funny accent - odd sort of bloke with punk-gypsy clothes and a certain way about him, lecturing him on jungle food chains! Mr Gobiwallah knew everything about the food chain, oh yes! He was at the bottom of it!

'OK Sir, how much would you like to pay?'

****

Super-Fly stepped into the shiny hotel foyer which smelled of detergent and bleach, sniffed around, blinked at the sun outside; winced, put on his shades and then stepped across the barrier into the seething sunshine. Lahore reminded him of the markets of Galgaroon II, a planet in the Oryx system. He had been there a couple of solar years back trying to dig out some info on the Whore Houses - for the adult sections of the Guide. Lahore had the same starved look; a populace of wandering nomads in a city of colonial and Moghul splendour. He'd read something about the history and was attempting to link what he was seeing with the words. The city was choked with humans. It was a grand city and the dereliction simply added to the grandeur by making it more empathic. He allowed himself be carried aloft by the crowds. He was taller then everybody and so could enjoy panoramic views above the bobbing heads; a sluice of heads like a river draining away. He couldn't help it, for his five years with the Guide as a researcher had so honed him that he found himself noting everything down - mentally. He had a prodigious memory; something the job required for there was not always time, and sometimes it was not practical, to note everything. Though he had seen much during his Guide days, he still allowed the wonder of a child to enchant him. It was all too easy to grow a thick heart and scabby eyes, and to withdraw into one's shell, into oneself, and mutate into a cynical miserable old sod.

One of the reasons why the Lonely Galaxy Guide sells so well compared to other travel literature is because of the detailed sections on the Whore Houses. It seems that the marketing department of the guide know who there readers are. Newly appointed Guide researchers are given a crash course on how to judge quality standards, cleanliness etc in these whore houses. One of the major problems faced by the Guide in the early days was 'speciation'. Let me explain: the Galaxy is not homogeneous. It comprises many species of many races of of many types. How do you judge Whore Houses across species? The problem is obvious. The answer not so.

The ingenious answer was found, as most great discoveries are, quite serendipitously. Professor 'Haw Nee Scrowtum' (yes, you may have heard of him before) was busy studying the mating rituals of caged Alduvian Hamsters when he discovered something remarkable. Caged Alduvian Hamsters have super sex drives; more so than Earth rabbits. Anyway, one morning, when he arrived in his lab, he found the Hamsters trying to have sex with his Comms device. The device had accidentally fallen into the Hamster 'pit' and it was flashing red and beeping all the time and the hamsters were busy trying to hump it. As soon as he switched it off - the humping stopped. This gave him an idea. After many more experiments the good Professor went on to release a seminal research paper titled 'On humping Hamsters & the sexual urge'.

What the professor had discovered by chance was that all species have a 'sex centre' in the cortex of the brain, which is 'turned-on' by the combination of red lights of a certain wavelength and ultrasonic sounds of a particular frequency. The upshot of the matter was that you could make any species have sex with anything as long as the thing you wanted it to have sex with flashed in the correct shade of red and emitted the correct frequency.

Modernists were joyous with jubilation. Conservatives outraged at what they saw as further indication of society's descent into immorality, and the 'Society for Blind and Deaf Beings' complained that this was unfair discrimination!

To be continued...

Part Deux - The continuing adventures of Super-Fly 3D Sonic

a man will beg
a man will crawl
from the sheer wreck of a hair-dryer
like a fly from a wall


To the people living in the village of 'Katcha Boti' in Pakistan, the scene from the heavens that night was terrifying and ominous. They had been sitting around their smoky braziers, sipping sweet-milky tea and chewing the latest village gossip until there was no flavour left, when they were driven out of their homes by an almighty bang like fireworks going off. The women (bless them) naturally thought it was a wedding celebration. Then the women wondered who's wedding it was? And then why the heck they hadn't been invited! After that things turned nasty when they started berating their husbands for not telling them about the wedding. For an encore they plodded back into their cozy little hovels feeling much better after having given their husbands a well deserved tongue lashing.

The men on the other hand were also having (more intelligent) thoughts. 'It's an invasion' they solemnly declared. 'The Indians are invading quick let's get our stuff!' (but clearly not intelligent enough). A little while later they emerged from their homes carrying sticks, sceptres, skewers, knives and cricket bats and headed towards what they believed to be the crash site. The women sardonically complained that the husbands were never usually this proactive when it came to domestic matters and let them be, and continued their whinging on the wedding front.

The children, having not yet been burdened with the yolk of adulthood, started playing 'Alien Invasion' - for that is what their imagination told them this was. It had all the hallmarks: big spacecraft looking thingy (check). Lot's of noise (check). Flashing lights (check). They were dressing up in black bin bags and swooping around like pretend spaceships acting out childhood fantasies: 'I'll be the evil Lord Doom come to pillage the earth and you Ali, can be the docile kebab walla' To which Ali replied almost in a sulk 'No I want to be Lord Doom and you can be the stupid kebab walla!' After that outburst the pretend Lord Doom and the kebab walla had fisticuffs ending with Lord Doom getting beaten by the kebab walla and crying. The mothers then intervened and told the children to behave and to stop being so childish and grow up a little, and then they continued with their wedding whinge.

Such was how the villagers of Katcha Boti were reacting to the entry of the unidentified flying object. An independent observer, from another planet, if they were to observe such scenes, would no doubt conclude that the children were the more advanced species. But I digress...

The spacecraft streaked through the atmosphere like skid marks in a pantyhose. The wake before it lit up visible like stretch marks on a fatty bosom. To a layman observer it didn't look as if it was falling or hurtling. In fact, if anything, it appeared to gloriously claim the sky as it's own. It was moving with purpose. With renewed resolve. With vigour. With control. And then it landed unceremoniously in the sands with an inglorious thud spewing forth a mini mushroom cloud of sand. It spewed forth it's contents too: a humanoid, who crawled out of the escape hatch; bloodied and bruised, and slowly dragged it's frame behind the nearest dune. The self-destruct device went off and the spacecraft summarily vanished in a puff of helium and some ozone molecules - the ozone molecules, now happy to be finally free, then linked up with their mates in the upper atmosphere for some CFC bashing.

A short while later the ragged and motley villagers arrived on the scene sporting farming implements as if they were on there way to some farmers road show. They looked around, decided they couldn't see a bloody thing, and stopped for a cigarette break. They were squatting and chatting and joking with each other - hardly the ferocious army come to ward off invaders. After a while and after some discussion, they had resolved that actually it was not their business to fight invaders, that was what the army was for, and they weren't paying their taxes for nothing. Some clever dick then interjected that actually they didn't pay their taxes. The one thing nobody likes is a smart ass especially village people, so the clever dick was shouted down and in no uncertain words told to go and have sex with his flock of sheep - so everybody mutually happy (apart from the sheep of course) they headed back to their wives for an episode of whingeing part II.

All this was being intensely followed by the humanoid from behind a snag in the sand dune. He was debating whether to say 'Hi!' or 'Assalam-0-alaikum' to these friendly folks. But then he thought that might fry their primitive brains for they did seem primitive. They were obviously farmers of some ilk and he knew from experience that the one thing you can't do to a farmer (no not milk him); the one thing you can't do to a farmer is reason with him. Having spent so much time with bovine company their higher faculties tend to decline exponentially every udder year - yes, that was a joke. The farmers trundled off leaving the humanoid to nurse his wounds. The current state of affairs was most unfortunate. He had a deadline to meet for the Lonely Galaxy Guide (his employer); the section on Earth had to be completed - under headings: 'People', 'Cost', 'Food', 'Women' (specifically whether it is possible to copulate with Earth women and more importantly whether you'd want to) and a final conclusion as to whether Earth is a planet worth visiting.

But the deadline was the least of his worries right now. His spacecraft up in smoke he was now stranded. Stranded on a planet that was regarded by the majority of the Galactic travelling fraternity as being rather dull. Dull as dishwater in fact. Stranded on a dull as dishwater planet was perhaps one of the worst things that could happen to such an exciting guy. For the Super-Fly was an electric-neon persona non grata. He was stylish. He was sexy. And he wore great shades. But being on Earth would score negative points in his 'coolest guy in the Galaxy' rating. What would his mates think! He had to get out, and get out quick.

To be continued...

Postcards from somewhere

On travel et al

On reinvention

ONE OF THE BEST THING'S about travelling is that there are endless possibilities for reinvention. That you might find a place you love, to begin a new life and never go home. In a distant place no one knows you - always a good thing. In a distant place you can pretend to be somebody you're not. Pretend to be rich or poor. You can be enigmatic and distant. You can be quirky and funny. You can be eccentric (my favourite). You can be friendly and polite or you can be insolent and imperious. You can pretend to be a writer or an evolutionary biologist or even (if you wish) an accountant. Nobody knows anything about you: your family background, which university you studied at, whether you've lived in the Middle East or the Caribbean, or the fact that you have an embarrassingly expensive pair of wooden headphones at home.

In travel you can reveal as much or as little about yourself as you please. And the great thing is that you can start all over again when you arrive somewhere new. One of the things that works to my advantage in this 'reinvention game' is my race. Yes, I am English but my parents are from Pakistan. The travellers I predominantly see are European, American or Japanese. This means that people here have no prepackaged preconceptions about me. I am mysterious. Enigmatic. I walk down the brothel strewn streets of whispered massage parlours like a ghost, an apparition, a spectre. I think to myself 'they don't know me'. And it is true they don't. So when I stroll into a high class restaurant and say 'Hi good evening. A table for one please' in my urbane feranji accent they are flummoxed. I can be who I want to be. Reinvention becomes that much easier. Playing chameleon that much more fun.


On travel writing

EVERYBODY THINKS THAT TRAVELLERS are bold trail-blazers with spunk in their blood, mettle in their pluck and an appetite for derring do. The guilty truth is more prosaic: we are the laziest people around and have managed to convince everybody that this 'bumming evasion' exercise that we have embarked upon is some elaborate scheme to 'find ourselves'. The truth is (most of us - and I am not referring to 'tourists' as they belong in a totally different class) most travellers are itinerant voyeurs with misplaced romantic notions. That is why a travellers worst nightmare is not the secret police or disease or smatterers but rather the prospect of meeting another fellow traveller. If we were truly honourable and honest, for then we should greet our fellow traveller with a hearthy embrace and a swooning smile. But we don't. Instead we look at them suspiciously, avoiding them at all costs, lest they rumble our little secret. A secret that they are aware of for they harbour it too. Most travel writing is a superfluous exercise; a thin and transparent monologue that goes: 'Heh guys! look at me! Look at me! Look what I'm doing!' A form of posturing. Your average travel writer and traveller and tourist for that matter is nothing but a self-interested, mendacious, licenced bore. Look at me look what I'm doing!

And me? Well there is something called curiosity is there not? And also an aimless joy is a pure joy - is it not? And what about those dreams of a foreign land, of temples, of yellow-robed monks, crowded bazaars - the bazaars of life. All of life is there in microcosm: birth, life and death. You are a visitor, albeit a nosy one. An utter stranger amongst these busy people. And do you know what the best bit is?

Nobody knows who you are.

The days go by just as days go by

"The day had gone by just as days go by. I had killed it in accordance with my primitive and retiring way of life" So begins Hermann Hess's 'Steppenwolf' - meditation on the modern human condition. Such words strike a stirring chord with me. My life is indeed quite 'primitive' and indeed 'retiring'. What day is it today? I don't know and nor does it matter. What difference does it make if I depart for somewhere on a Friday or on a Tuesday? The current Financial Crisis (Meltdown Monday), the US Presidential Elections, Gordon Brown's leadership woes, knife-crime in London, all but part of distant memories; dregs at the bottom of the memory flask.

Oh it's lovely here in Chiang Mai. I've been quite fortunate. I've managed to find a charming guest-house to stay in. It's brand new and only opened last week. It's design is inspired by classical Thai architecture fused with the Modern. Huge woodwork beams grace the interior; dark teak - sumptuous. Upstairs is a great breezy balcony area for reading, drinking or just loitering. Loitering I like that. There's an open kitchen where you can go and prepare food if you wish. It has a library and Wi-Fi. The bedrooms have cable TV, Air-Con, lovely cupboards, comfy beds, a rack of National Geographic's, and modern bathrooms with sumptuous towels and all mod cons. Yet, despite all these 'appliances of science' it still manages to look quaint, chic, rustic and reassuringly modern in equal measures. Actually the place feels more like a home to me and it has that ethos. In fact the owners, a charming Thai couple, admitted that they prefer 'quieter' guests who don't come in late and make a racket. I think they like me! A mouse going about 'killing' the day. Oh, and I'm the only one there! I have the whole place to myself! I can spend hours in the leafy garden reading or writing and not be disturbed. I can pop into town for a cold beer, a meal and some serious loitering if i so wish - and it's all within walking distance. I can hire a scooter if need be to get away from town; you know go for a day-trip to the villages - zooming down the narrow lanes; passing paddies, farmers and chugging tractors. I think I'm going to stay here for a while. I like it here. I'm also going to take pictures of Hanibaah Guest House; the exterior, the lounge, the kitchen, the bathrooms, my bedroom and post them here so you can look and die pickle-pink of envy! Oh and I'll also post a pic of me with a big smile on my face just in case you don't believe me! A big big smile. A smile so big and w i d e you'll want to hit it with your slippers.

A most ordinary train journey

The morning rose sticky like plum-pudding and when I looked up woolly clouds were scampering across the sky like bumfluff snagging in the turrets of Bangkok's majestic Hualamphong train station. I’d woken up early after a glorious nights oceanic sleep; shaved, showered, scrubbed me teeth, changed into a pair of long shorts and a T-shirt (that said 'Beaware of the Wolf'), packed my measly belongings and then caught a Tuk-Tuk taxi to the ageing but imperious railway terminal. The train sauntered in on time and then sulked. I got in and sat in my 2nd class carriage. I was feeling reasonably happy with myself: I had a window seat. I had plenty of room to stretch my legs. There was nobody sitting next to me and I was in the middle of reading David Mitchell's 'Cloud Atlas' which I was looking forward to finally finishing. I was travelling on the 08:30 Super Express to Chiang Mai, a mere 12 hours to the far north of the country. I had been a tad anxious the night before because I didn't know what to expect from Thai Railways. But the aircraft style interior, with food trays in the back of seats, though vapid and unoriginal, did suggest reliability. So no surprises I suppose. Hardly the stuff of adventure travel!

Generally train journeys don’t wake that sleep-starving, anxiety-inducing demon that prods me with knives the night before an aeroplane flight. With trains you know they'll be no check-in, no security, no customs, and no custard-faced travellers to look at . In this particular case only Thai's with their aromatic pack lunches, boisterous bratty children and their toothless Grandmas. As soon as we left the station (on time I might add) the carriage quickly took on the aspect of a Thai home: people walking around greeting fellow passengers, people stretching their legs like they would on the sofa at home, shoes and socks pulled off, food being shared, politics being discussed, and housewives talking nonce - why a little carnival! The train rattled pass the centre of the city; the rusted corrugated busy backyards drifted by like a streak of paint. I began to read. Breakfast was served a-la aeroplane style: a 'flight' attendant, supported on heels the size of plinths and wearing cherry lipstick, came by pushing a complaining squeaky wheeled trolley and duly served coffee and some sort of organic looking fruit cake which I prodded to see if it was alive. No, it was dead. Things we’re looking most good. I peered out of the window and found that we had already cleared Bangkok's suburbs and were now cheerfully hooting past flatlands of emerald rice paddies and teak homes built on stilts. The swampy paddies reflected a sky now azure blue puffed and bloated with clouds. Occasionally we’d cross a road; the halted traffic looking on at us snarled and clogged to the brim.

There was many a landscape shot I imagined through the window. Still-life's for a rural-pastoral exhibition: a black bullock kneading through a paddy with the sun gleaming off its sweaty hide. A woman wading in thick mucky mud; her face covered by a wide-brimmed hat and the fingers muddy like Kit-Kats. A row of dozen ultra-modern homes with red roof tiles and satellite dishes on the banks of a brackish lake. A field of pineapple trees in straight lines standing to attention like soldiers. Well tended quaint stations flashed by. The land so flat that you’re eyes carried you to the limits of the horizon. Beautiful? Sublime? Not quite but harmless and relaxing in a way the rugged north of Pakistan is not. It’s not a landscape to dwell and brood on - unlike Pakistan. You can’t plant your creative seeds in these flatlands and expect them to bloom into a butterfly:

Monotony is the death knell of creativity and incongruity is its opiate

We rolled by a train graveyard; rusty, yellow, sleeper carriages, sanguine and mournful at the same time, were lying on their sides, up-turned, frozen in final death throes. The train seemed to slow down as we approached – in deference perhaps. Was our train alive? Who knows? And then it happened. When I look back at this moment I think perhaps it was the signs of its mortality that did it. Suddenly there was a revving and roaring as our train lifted off the rails! You knew you we’re off the ground in the same way you know an aeroplane has taken off - no bumpy-bumpy under your feet and that otherworldly sense of having gotten the better of gravity. We we’re now hurtling through the air - skywards! At first you think you've had an accident. Ti's impossible. Then you look out of the window and see land snatching away and re-materialising in shades of chessboard green.

Suddenly the Tannoy speakers buzzed on; expecting a guttural explanation from the driver as to why you were suddenly airborne, imagine your surprise when who’s smoky singing voice would shine through the speakers?:



You might stop a hurricane. Might even stop the driving rain. If you wanna stop me baby don’t even try. I’m going one way. You’re way. It’s such a strong way. Let’s make it our way. Can’t-stop-this-thing-we-started! Can’t-stop-this-course-we-plotted! This thing called love we got it. No place for the broken hearted...

"Hey! That's Brian Adam's!" You hear yourself exclaim to fellow passengers who look on bewildered. Oh Brian, bless your cotton socks! So we we’re going one way? Someone’s way? Who’s way? Which way exactly? And why couldn't we stop this thing we started? No way!

The engines continued to roar and whirred like frantic bee wings. We climbed through fields of cloud. We ascended above countries. An array of continents. A consortium of planets. A sparkling foam-wash of stars. A clique of galaxies. A honeycomb of universes. And still we continued with Brian and his electric guitar still very much in the background:

You might stop the world spinnin’ around. Might even walk on holy ground. I ain’t superman but I can fly. If you wanna stop me baby don’t even try! I’m going one way. Your way. It’s such a strong way. Let’s make it our way. Ohh baby can’t-stop-this-we-we-started. Can’t stop it. Can’t stop it. Can’t stop it…

Ti's all mighty strange. Then silence. We found ourselves knocking on the doors of the ‘light-speed-barrier’ attendant. “Can we come in?” we asked when he opened the door. He was an old man with wispy white hair. The 'light-speed-barrier' attendant looked at us up and down. “Well I don’t usually let people in but I suppose I can make an exception just this one time; on account of the fact that I like you, and you’re playing Brian Adam's, whom I adore! He’s my fave! So come in…Would you like a cup of tea?”

So we walked in. "Where er exactly are we?"

He poured us a nice warm brew in China cups and with a wave of the hand said. "Oh you don't need to concern yourself with such questions. Cause and affect. The flotsam and jetsam. It's all in good hands. No worries"
The tea was delicious. He added "I suppose you'll want me to let you through heh?"
Not sure what to do we nodded in agreement. "OK, well drink up. No use letting you on your journey without a good cuppa!" So we drank up.

The Tannoy in our cabin suddenly interrupted Brian whilst he was doing an amazing guitar solo. It was an announcement:

“Ladies and Gentlemen. This is your train-driver speaking. Welcome to the Interspatial, Intergalactic, Interplanetary, Interdimensional, Interwhateverufancy Expressway! Just a quicky to let you know that we have received go-ahead from the light-speed-barrier attendant. I repeat we have received go-ahead to break light speed. We shall be entering light speed shortly so you may experience slight turbulence. And a headache. And various other ailments of a grossly physical nature. Thank you”

He cut-off and Brian came back on again:

Sometimes words are hard to find. I’m looking for that perfect line. To let you know you’re always on my mind. When you want it. When you need it. You’ll always have the best of me. I can’t help it. Believe it. You’ll always have the best of me...

We waited. And we waited. And still Brian kept crooning those dastardly melodies. The engines continued roaring; their jet stream scratching the space between the stars. And then it happened. We broke light-speed - crossed the barrier as they say. You knew something extraordinary had happened because your feet we’re now sticking out of your ears and your lips had somehow managed to attach themselves to your armpits. Your smelly armpits. We we’re in 'Light-Speed-World'. Clocks we’re useless. Time was relative. Quantum physics a sham. Einstein God and Brian Adam's a rock genius.

Things were different in Light-Speed-World. There was no such thing as 'travelling' for example because the age-old problem of travel had been solved. You no longer had to travel per se. You just thought where you wanted to be and then you were there. People didn't see the point of travelling anymore. Why bother they'd say? Who wants to do that?! they'd say looking at you as if you were an artifact from the Museum of Olden-Days. And relationships? Ha relationships! Relationships were now conducted at light speed. Super-duper-fast. In a single moment too small to even register you fell in love. Coupled. Had sex. And then broke up. None of that tedious mucking about in Non-Light-Speed-World you were previously forced to go though. You know all that malarky with a broken heart, angst, months of depression and sweet-food binges. None of that crap. On a down side however orgasms didn't last as long in Light-Speed-World. But you did get more of them. More 'bangs for the buck' as they like to say.

This was an area you we’re desperately desiring to explore in more depth when…suddenly you start hearing Queen drumming through your ears. Queen! and then you realise that this is more like the reality you know. Queen! Not f***ing Brian Adams! This whole Light-Speed-World thingy was just somebodies wet-dream. Your wet-dream:

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a land-slide. No escape from reality. Open your eyes.

And you open your eyes waking from your dream. And your heart sinks like the sun that has already sunk behind the horizon. You're in the 2nd class carriage of the 08:30 to Chiang Mai and you can hear the drinks trolley lady with the squeaky wheels trotting by like a horney pig in trotters. (You what? Did you just think that?). She looks at you waiting for your order:

“I’d like what I was just having please darling” you say kinda enigmatically.

“And what was it that Sir was just having?”she says raising those bushy knitted-jumper eyebrows

“Oh, a Dreamscape Champagne baby. A Dreamscape Champagne” you sigh and with it exhale out all your hopes and wet-dreams.

She looks at you and with a wry smile of her own, that seems to stretch to the stars themselves, then she says:

“You better tell me what you would like to drink Sir. We’re going one way. It’s such a long way. And I’m not sure when we will stop this thing we st…”